University of Virginia Library

6. VI.

I have noticed Stuart's stubbornness, nerve, and coolness. His
dash and impetuosity in the charge have scarcely been alluded
to, and yet it was these characteristics of the man which chiefly
impressed the public mind. On a former page he has been compared
to Rupert, the darling of love and war, who was never so
well satisfied as when dashing against the Roundhead pikes and
riding down his foes. Stuart seems to have inherited that trait
of the family blood—for it seems tolerably well established that
he and Rupert were descended from the same stock, and scions
of that family which has given to the world men of brain and
courage, as well as faineans and libertines. To notice briefly
this not uninteresting point, the “family likeness” in the traits
of Stuart and Prince Rupert is very curious. Both were utterly
devoted to a principle which was their life-blood—in Rupert it
was the love of royalty, in Stuart the love of Virginia. Both
were men of the most impetuous temper, chafing at opposition,
and ready at any instant to match themselves against their adversaries,
and conquer or die. Both were devoted to the “love of

ladies,” gallant to the echo; of a proud and splendid loyalty to
their word; of unshrinking courage; kind and compassionate
in temper, gay and smiling in address; fonder of fighting than
of looking to the commissariat; adored by their men, who
approached them without fear of a repulse; cavalry-men in every
drop of their blood; fond of brilliant colours, splendid pageants,
the notes of the bugle, the glitter of arms: Rupert with his
snowy plume, Stuart with his black one;—both throwing over
their shoulders capes of dazzling scarlet, unworn by men who
are not attached to gay colours; both taking a white dog for a
pet; both proud, gay, unswerving, indomitable, disdainful of
low things, passionately devoted to glory; both men in brain
and character at an age when others are mere boys; both famous
before thirty—and for ever—such were the points of resemblance
between these two men. Those familiar with the character of
the greatest cavalry-man of the English struggle, and with the
traits of Stuart, the most renowned of the recent conflict, will
not fail to see the likeness.

But I pass to “Stuart in the charge.” Here the man was
superb. It was in attack, after all, that his strongest faculties
were exhibited. Indeed, the whole genius and temperament of
the Virginian were for advancing, not retreating. He could fall
back stubbornly, as has been shown; and he certainly did so in
a masterly manner, disputing every inch of ground with his
adversary, and giving way to an enemy's advance under bloody
protest. At these times he displayed the obstinate temper of the
old Ironsides of Cromwell, when they retired in serried ranks,
ready to turn as they slowly retreated, and draw blood with their
iron claws. But when advancing upon an adversary—more
than all in the impetuous charge—Stuart was no longer the
Roundhead; he was the Cavalier. Cavalier he was by birth
and breeding and temperament; and he sprang to meet an
enemy, as Rupert drove forward in the hot struggle of the past
in England. You could see, then, that Stuart was in his element.
Once having formed his column for the charge, and given
his ringing order to “Form in fours! draw sabre!” it was neck
or nothing. When he thus “came to the sabre,” there was no

such word as fail with him. Once in motion to hurl his column
against his adversary, he seemed to act upon the Scriptural precept
to forget those things which were behind, and press on to
those which were before. That was the enemy in front; and to
ride over, and cut right and left among them, was the work
before him. At such moments there was something grand in
the magnificent fire and rush of the soldier. He seemed strong
enough to ride down a world. Only a glance was needed to
tell you that this man had made up his mind to break through
and trample under foot what opposed him, or “die trying.”
His men knew this; and, when he took personal command of
the column, as he most often did, prepared for tough work. His
occasional roughness of address to both officers and men had made
him bitter enemies, but the admiration which he aroused was
unbounded. The men were often heard to say, in critical places:
“There goes old Jeb to the front, boys; it's all right.” And an
officer whom he had offended, and who hated him bitterly,
declared with an oath that he was the greatest cavalry commander
that had ever lived. The reported words of General
Sedgwiek, of the United States Army, may be added here:
“Stuart is the greatest cavalry officer ever foaled in North
America.”

The impetuosity here noted was undoubtedly one of the most
striking traits of the man. In a charge, Stuart seemed on fire,
and was more the Chief of Squadron than the Corps Commander.
He estimated justly his own value as a fighting man, when he
said one day: “My proper place would be major of artillery;”
and it is certain that in command of a battalion of field-pieces,
he would have fought until the enemy were at the very
muzzles of his guns. But in the cavalry he had even a better
field for his love of close fighting. To come to the sabre best
suited his fiery organization, and he did come to it, personally,
on many occasions. He preferred saying, “Come on” to “Go
on.” The men declared that he was reckless, but no one could
say that he had ever sent his column where he was not ready to
go himself. If he made a headlong and determined attack upon
an overpowering force—a thing common with him—he was in

front himself, or fighting among the men. He never seemed to
feel, as far as my observation went, that his life was any more
valuable than that of the humblest private soldier. After one
of these occasions of reckless exposure of himself, I said to him:
“General, you ought not to put yourself in the way of the
bullets so; some day you will be killed.” He sighed and
replied: “Oh, I reckon not; but if I am, they will easily find
somebody to fill my place.” He had evidently determined to
spend and be spent in the Southern struggle, which had aroused
his most passionate sympathies. This love of native land came
to add a magnificent fervour to the natural combativeness of the
man. As a “free lance,” Stuart would have been careless of
his person; but in the Southern struggle he was utterly
reckless.

This indifference to danger was evidently a trait of blood, and
wholly unaffected. Nor, for a long time, did his incessant exposure
of himself bring him so much as a scratch. On all the
great battle-fields of Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, as
well as in the close and bitter conflicts of his cavalry at Fleetwood,
Auburn, Upperville, Middleburg, South Mountain,
Monocacy, Williamsport, Shepherdstown, Paris, Barbee's, Jeffersonton,
Culpeper Court-House, Brandy, Kelly's Ford, Spotsylvania—in
these, and a hundred other hotly-contested actions,
he was in the very thickest of the fight, cheering on the sharpshooters,
directing his artillery, or leading his column in the
charge, but was never hurt. Horses were shot under him, bullets
struck his equipments, pierced his clothes, or cut off curls of
his hair, as at Fredericksburg, but none ever wounded him. In
the closest melée of clashing sabres the plume of Stuart was
unscathed; no sword's edge ever touched him. He seemed to
possess a charmed life, and to be invulnerable, like Achilles.
Shell, canister, and round-shot tore their way through the ranks
around him, overthrowing men and horses—many a brave fellow
at his side fell, pierced by the hissing bullets of Federal carbines—
but Stuart, like Rupert, never received a wound. The ball
which struck and laid him low at the Yellow Tavern on that
black day of May, 1864, was the first which touched him in the

war. In a hundred battles they had passed to the left and right
of him, sparing him.